


Reproducible Data

by TurtleTotem



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Gen, Reichenbach Theory, only shippy if you want it to be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 16:46:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TurtleTotem/pseuds/TurtleTotem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"You never got the clever explanation," he half-whispered into the dim room, lit only by the fireplace and the embers of their burning joints, "because there isn't one."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reproducible Data

John never wanted to know how he did it. Long after forgiveness was granted and well-worn and half-forgotten, that afternoon still stood in his memory as one of the most terrifying and painful of his life, and discovering it had been choreographed only added betrayal to the cornucopia of unbearable emotions. When Sherlock came back, at least he could stop reliving it in nightmares; he had no desire to revisit the event in his mind after that, not for any reason.

Sherlock never pressed him, as Mary thought surely he would eventually, never seemed driven to share the details of what had to have been a spectacular piece of cleverness. She did, of course, hear the tale Sherlock told Anderson; it made its way through the public at large, slower than she might have thought. Some parts of it seemed as though they _must_ be true; others rang false for reasons she couldn't put her finger on. But she didn't ask either. Whatever strange reticence held him back, she thought it was best left undisturbed.

Molly did ask, once, years later, when they'd both had a couple.

"I must have had a part in it, everyone agrees," she said. "I'd love to know what it was exactly."

But that was when John walked in, and somehow Sherlock slithered out of ever answering.

"You will tell me, someday, surely," Mycroft said to him, that Christmas Day before Magnusson's death, "why you chose to disregard all the plans we worked so hard on, and do something else entirely?"

"No, I don't believe I will," Sherlock responded, pulling hard on his cigarette. "Much more fun to watch you try and figure it out."

Mrs. Hudson alone ever heard the truth, and that only because John was in hospital after their latest case went decidedly pear-shaped. Mary had kicked Sherlock out of the hospital room to go sleep, and his hands wouldn't stop shaking until Mrs. Hudson offered him a share of her strictly-medicinal marijuana.

"You never got the clever explanation," he half-whispered into the dim room, lit only by the fireplace and the embers of their burning joints, "because there isn't one."

"I don't understand."

"I had all manner of plans going onto that rooftop, of course I did. A baker's dozen. Molly would have helped with some, Mycroft with others... But none of them accounted for Moriarty blowing his brains out. None of them... none of them would save you. You and Lestrade and John. There was no way to save John... Except by playing Moriarty's game all the way through to the end.

"I didn't fake my death, Mrs. Hudson. There was no brilliant save, no convoluted magic trick. I jumped off the roof of St. Bart's Hospital, and I died." He took another drag, staring into the fire, while Mrs. Hudson simply stared and waited.

"The next thing I remember is John Watson's voice. 'One last miracle for me, Sherlock. Don't... be... dead.'

"I came up with a story for Anderson, of course I did, I had to come up with an explanation and after all it's not like I _couldn't_ have faked my death, given more warning, more time, more resources. But I didn't. I stood on a rooftop on a bleak January afternoon, all out of tricks... and fell."

He surveyed his hands, no longer shaking, and handed the half-smoked joint back to Mrs. Hudson.

"John needed me alive, and so I was. It makes no sense, Mrs. Hudson. It flies in the face of everything I believe to be true about the world." A distant smile quirked one eyebrow, one side of his mouth. "And yet, since human hearts are not in the _general_ habit of restarting on their own, it did turn out to be a reproducible experiment. Perhaps there’s a certain science to it after all.”


End file.
